And you think you know a guy. Even the FOX affiliates are fair and balanced.

A few weeks ago I read the following on the CNN website:

China is imposing new restrictions on foreign adoptions, barring applicants who are unmarried, obese, over 50 or who take antidepressants, according to U.S. adoption agencies.

Basically, the Chinese are saying that come May 1st all old maids, fat asses, Geritol cases and crazy people will not be able to adopt a Chinese kid. I’m surprised they didn’t try to weed out the homosexuals while they were at it. Although, maybe they grouped them in with the unmarried crowd so as not to seem like bigots. They also state that if you have a “severe facial deformity”, you need not apply. So once again, Michael Bolton gets the short end of the stick……I kid.

Obviously, if I read this weeks ago and it’s still bothering me, I must have issues with it. I’m not obese nor am I over 50. However, I am unmarried and although I fought it for a long time, I did decide to go the medicinal route when it came to the storm clouds in my head. Fact is, though, I don’t even want a Chinese kid. I mean, I have nothing against Chinese babies. They’re cute and cuddly and all, but orphans come a dime a dozen in the states. So why fly all the way over to China to get one? Madonna, Angelina Jolie…why do you have to fly half way around the world to get a kid who needs a loving home? Malawi, Ethiopia. You want a black kid? We got plenty! I guess it’s more exotic to get kids from other countries. “Cooler” if you will. Adopting American kids is so last year.

Anyway, I digress. My overall point was that the Chinese have it all wrong. Unmarried people have more time to spend with their kids because they aren’t spending all that time arguing with their spouse. Having an obese parent means you never have to worry about going hungry. People are living longer these days. Over 50 shouldn’t be a negative. They bring wisdom to the table. And let’s face it, people who are on anti-depressants (as long as they aren’t completely suicidal) are probably more stable than people who aren’t. There are different forms of anti-depressants. There are the kind that are prescribed by doctors — Zoloft, Wellbutrin, Cymbalta, yada yada yada, and there are the kinds you can pick up at any liquor store or street corner or gambling hall. Alcoholics drink to get over whatever is bringing them down. Addicts shoot up to ward off the demons. Gamblers gamble to forget about the detritus that is their lives. Despite all of that, addicts are not excluded from the process. Lucky them.

At the end of the article, the Chinese suggest that if you fall into the reject list, you may want to consider adopting a Vietnamese kid. It’s almost as if they are saying, “We wouldn’t take you, but THEY would accept anybody.” It’s like walking into some snooty store looking for a pair of jeans and they scoff at you and suggest K Mart or perhaps the Salvation Army. I’m sure the Vietnamese don’t care for their kids being referred to like some kind of bargain bin item.

Why does this bother me so much? Maybe it’s because they excluded all the wrong people. Age, weight and marital status have nothing to do with the fact of whether or not you can raise a child in a loving, happy environment. And depression and anxiety are a part of everyday life. Nearly all people encounter it, although to different extremes. But it isn’t the suffering that should be of importance. It is how one deals with the suffering. I’d much rather hand a newborn to someone who picks up a prescription bottle everyday than to someone who stares down a wine bottle every night.

This past weekend I visited the local bookstore in hopes of finding a decent book on ghosts and the paranormal. Don’t ask me why, but suddenly I have taken a sincere interest in the subject and wanted to know more. Perhaps it is because the existence of ghosts would be some proof to me that there is an existence, whatever it may be, beyond this tepid life we live here on earth. Anyway, more on that later.

Needless to say, I did not find the book. However, I did run across the audiobook of Game of Shadows: Barry Bonds, BALCO, and the Steroids Scandal that Rocked Professional Sports for $7.50. I looked at the black cover with the white lettering and the photo of the bulky back of #25 and I was instantly intrigued. I’d heard of the book before. Anyone who enjoys baseball and despises what drugs have done to the game has heard of the book. It pretty much rocked the sports world upon it’s release and cast a very harsh light on baseball and Bonds in particular. I snapped up the audiobook, left the store and immediately popped it into my car’s cd player.

I’ve written about Bonds before. Quite recently, in fact. So, why am I revisiting this subject? I think it is for a myriad of reasons. The main reason being the utter ambivalence I hold towards Barry Bonds. As an African-American male who grew up watching baseball and studying the history of the sport (although I am not even close to an expert), I took great pride in watching Bonds smack 73 homers in 2001. It was one of the most exhilarating events I had ever watched. Five years ago you couldn’t turn me against the Giants outfielder. Although I had always been a Phillies fan, I was suddenly becoming a Giants fan simply because of Bonds. In my eyes, he was becoming the greatest player the sport had ever seen. He was a hero. And like most mortal men, once he ascended to his throne, he was summarily toppled.

Now, one could blame the media. It could be and has been often said that the media is particularly eager to bring down African-American sports greats. And perhaps that is true in some instances. But some men are ensnared due to ambiguous reasons — Steve McNair and the drunken driving case was one, in my opinon — and some men seem to beg for the gauntlet. Should Bonds be treated harsher than Mark Mcgwire? No. If it weren’t for Mcgwire and his own use of performance enhancing drugs (legal or not), who’s to say Bonds would have ever gone that route? Shadows implies that Bond’s was enraged by Mcgwire’s success and I am sure that was the impetus to Bonds finding that competitive edge.

What bothers me most about Bonds is that in a way he is spitting on all of the great men who came before him, the men who literally had to fight to play the game. Before Jackie Robinson played the game, baseball was not truly America’s game. Baseball was a divisive game with two separate but equal entities. To me, one can never say that Babe Ruth or Ty Cobb were the greatest, nor can one ever say that Josh Gibson or Satchel Paige were the greatest. They were great in their own realms, but they were separated by ignorance and hate. And because of that we will never know how truly great they were. People like Gibson and Paige, Buck O’Neil and thousands of other Negro league players were proud of playing in the Negro leagues, but they also wanted to show the other side what they could do. After Robinson came along, African-American players got that chance. We got to see Willie Mays and Frank Robinson and Reggie Jackson. All naturally gifted players. Barry Bonds was just as gifted as they, but he has decided (allegedy, right?) to not only besmirch the game, but in a way blurry the achievements and struggles of those who came before him.

Today, two new players were elected to Cooperstown and the illustrious baseball Hall of Fame — Cal Ripkin Jr., a great shortstop and a dedicated player who never missed a game, and Tony Gwynn, one of the best hitters to ever play the sport. Gwynn never hit a lot of homers, but he was a near guarantee to get on base or move a runner over or knock in a run. Neither Ripkin nor Gwynn were big, physically or in the way of prestige, and you never heard a disparaging word about either man. And neither has ever been a victim of the kind of allegations Barry Bonds and Mark Mcgwire have endured. They played clean and hard and years later they were rewarded with a trip to baseball immortality. Voted in #1 and #2 respectively, Ripkin and Gwynn received two of the highest percentages in voting history.

And where did Mcgwire end up on the list? Ninth. He wasn’t even close to making it in. He has fourteen more years of eligibility, if I am not mistaken, and because fans are often forgiving and forgetful, he will probably make it in. But should he? Should Bonds when his day arrives or Canseco or any of the bulky juicers who made the game of skill and natural ability and hard work a sham?

Today Mcgwire was shown the door and silently told that he made a mockery of the game. Perhaps next season, when and if Barry Bonds breaks Hank Aaron’s cherished home run record, a series of boos and bad press will tell Barry what fans think of him and his game. Put down the needles and pick up a bat. These two could learn a thing or two from Mr. Gwynn and Mr. Ripkin.

Never let it be said that I know everything there is to know about jazz. Just when I begin to wonder if there are anymore great discoveries to be made regarding the rich lineage of this music, another gem rears its lovely head. I recently heard a 1930 recording of Body and Soul, recorded by Annette Hanshaw. Never heard of Ms. Hanshaw, but man I love this song and her voice. Pure heaven. I will be adding this track to the station this week along with others.

Tonight I got to experience the first of what I hope are many great, classic films. I skipped out of work and went to the Belcourt to see the Jean Renoir picture, The Rules Of The Game, resplendent in black and white - a wonderful restoration. While it may have been reviled by the French and banned by the Nazis, The Rules Of The Game is entertaining and mesmerizing in every way, and is especially captivating in its examination of the validity of romantic love.

The film starts out with a throng of people celebrating the return of an aviator who has circled the globe in almost record time. But instead of being elated by the success of his feat and the adulation of his countrymen, the young aviator is completely dejected, inconsolable because the woman he adores is not there to greet him. When asked by the reporter how he feels about his triumph, the aviator can only bemoan the fact that he flew around the world for one person and that person doesn’t seem to care. And from that point on, the game begins.

We see so many shades of romantic love as the film plays on. Lust, seduction, pining, infatuation, jealousy and even murderous passion. At one point a woman says to her paramour that she wants to flee with him, leaving her husband behind. But her lover says that he can not steal a man’s wife away without telling him. “There are rules to the game,” he says. Is love a game? When one man seduces another man’s wife, is he not just playing a game? If he manages to ensnare this woman, is he satisfied? Does the game end? Or does another game begin?

Two movies came to mind while watching this wonderful film. One is the movie Love Jones, which came out about ten years ago. There is a line from that movie that states, “Romance is the moment between when a man first meets a woman and when he first makes love to her.” The other film is From The Terrace with Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward. The actress Ina Balin asks Newman if he believes in love at first sight. He responds, “I believe in confusion.” When you watch Rules, you can detach yourself from the gaudy affluence of the French bourgeoisie. You can see this whole thing as a farce and not take it seriously, blaming the carelessness in love on the spoiled haughtiness of aristocracy. But be careful. This game is played by all, from the Oval office to the disillusioned housewife who suddenly has an itch. All it takes is meeting that one person who makes your toes tingle and the game begins — the confusion as well.

There were many other interesting things about Rules. The brief, anti-semitic tinged conversation among the working class who in fact worked for a Jew (This film was shot in 1939. Right before the Second World War.) The way director Renoir had his characters move back and forth between some scenes in such a nimble fashion, it was almost like a waltz — a comical, clumsy one at times. But I was fascinated with the games the people played. Perhaps it was intended to poke fun, but it had to have hit close to home. Otherwise, why did it upset so many?

Love is a game. How much do you give? How much do you take? How much can you say without seeming too vulnerable? One would think sincerity would be the best tactic when it came to love. But as the object of the aviator’s undying affection says, “Sincere people are such a bore.” The fun is in the chase and in being chased. It is in desire and being desired. When love becomes too honest, it seems people shy away and begin to look for their fun elsewhere.